


Glass: Omitted Scenes

by daydreamtofiction



Series: Glass [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Deleted Scenes, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Porn, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sexy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamtofiction/pseuds/daydreamtofiction
Summary: A collection of omitted scenes* from the Glass - Sherlock Fanfiction series.*These scenes contain sexual content.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Glass [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545352
Comments: 10
Kudos: 282





	1. Preface

"I would be devastating. I'd know exactly how to please a woman, I'd know exactly where to put my fingers, where to put my tongue, where to put my — his I should say — his fingers, his tongue. Think about violinists, think about what they can do with their fingers. And I'd know exactly how to get that person into it, and get pleasure out of making that person feel pleasure to the point that I probably wouldn't even have to enter. But when I did it would be explosive."

\- Benedict Cumberbatch on sex with Sherlock Holmes


	2. 6.5 // After the Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Sherlock saves Margaux's life on the museum balcony, the pair arrive back at 221B Baker Street. Things get heated after Margaux pushes Sherlock to admit his feelings.

Margaux had imagined this moment before, more times than she liked to admit. She would see him in the labs of St Bart's, sleeves rolled up, face pressed against a microscope, and find herself wondering what it would feel like to kiss him, to hear his moans against her ear. She'd imagined he would be slow, methodical, deliberate; that he would move with diligence, touch with intent. She would bite her lip and shake away the image, ignore the heat rising from her core. She had imagined the moment before, but in all of her fantasies, she had never expected this.

Sherlock kicked open the bedroom door, grasping her thighs through the fabric of her dress and throwing her onto the bed. She pushed the tuxedo jacket down his arms as he climbed on top of her, helping him take it off and throw it to the floor. She grabbed the bowtie around his neck and pulled his face towards hers, stealing a kiss before he curled his fingers around her wrist, released her grip of the bowtie and pinned her hand to the bed. She stared up at him through the dark, her breath hot like steam as she panted, waiting for him to do something.

He climbed off the bed and undid the tie, throwing it aside before unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. She propped herself up on her elbows and watched with heavy breaths, desperate to touch him - waiting for permission. She had never tread so lightly before; never feared someone would change their mind. Sherlock found comfort in control, so she had to let him lead.

"Come here," he said quietly, his voice dark and rich.

Margaux clambered to her knees on the edge of the bed, her eyes drawn to the open collar exposing his neck. She couldn't help but lay a kiss there; pressing her lips against his soft, pale skin and lavishing the taste of salt, soap and faded cologne. A gentle moan escaped his lips as he felt her tongue at the base of his throat. The sound was even better than she had imagined.

"Turn around," he said.

She turned quickly, sensing the impatience in his voice, her skin pricking into goosebumps as she felt his hands on her bare back. The backless dress fit her like a glove, flush to her skin and held in place with a set of clasp and buttons that were too small and intricate even for Sherlock's nimble violinist fingers. She waited quietly as he battled with them, his fingertips hurting as he pinched at the clasps, each time slipping and failing to prise them apart.

She glanced over her shoulder. "Do you need h-"

He growled in frustration, grabbing a fistful of material and pulling it hard. The dress tore away with a burst of beads and thread. Margaux gasped at the sound of them flying across the room, bouncing off the walls and clattering against the wooden floor.

"This cost me a fortune," she said breathlessly.

"I'll write you a cheque," Sherlock replied as he hastily slid the straps down her arms and turned her around.

She lay back, helping him shimmy the dress over her hips and down her legs, watching in anticipation as he threw it aside and climbed back onto the bed. She pulled him back on top of her, kissing him hungrily and clutching at his hair, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush against each other. He pressed himself between her legs as they kissed, the pressure providing small relief to the ache trapped beneath his trousers. Margaux moaned at the feeling, her fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and impatiently popping each one open until she could push it down his arms and toss it aside to join her dress on the floor. She placed a palm on his slender torso, her fingers caressing the creamy, marble skin of his chest before travelling slowly down his stomach towards the waistline of his trousers.

He jerked his hips back, moving himself away from her eager fingers. "You're being impatient."

"Can you blame me?"

He brushed her hair out of her face, trailing kisses down her jaw. His mouth travelled hungrily to to her neck where he nipped his teeth and sucked soft, rosy blooms along her pulse. With each placement, he assessed her reaction; the goosebumps, the gasps, until eventually, there was a moan. He ran his tongue over the same spot again – the hollow above her collarbone – revelling in the sounds pouring from her mouth like honey.

He trailed his mouth down from her neck to her chest, his movements just like she had imagined; methodical and deliberate. But the feeling of him, she could never have prepared for that. As his lips travelled across her breasts, his delicate fingers continued to move down her body, over her ribs, hips, stomach, caressing them like the strings of a violin. Hard, soft, long strokes, small tickles. He was playing her, composing music against her skin and revelling in the sounds he was drawing from her lips.

She thought he would be more tentative, more submissive and unsure. But as he tugged on her underwear, pulling the crotch to one side, she realised she had underestimated him. He was confident in everything he did, sex was clearly no different.

He slid down the bed, grasping her thighs and pushing them apart.

"Sherlock," her voice quivered. "Please..."

He felt her hips rolling beneath him as he listened to her laboured breath, her body begging for him. And with that, he buried his face between her legs. She groaned in a mix of pleasure and relief, almost certain she felt him smile as he began to devour her, gently at first, tasting her desire. Her fingers tangled into his hair, her back arching as he lapped and pressed his tongue against her. She wondered how a tongue so sharp could be capable of such pleasure.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

He glanced up at her. "What?"

"No. Don't stop- I need-"

She was incoherent; the words too heavy to properly leave her lips. This was a good sign, he knew. But he needed to be certain. He raised up onto his knees, his eyes never leaving hers as he pushed two fingers inside her, watching as she cried out and threw her head back. He began to move his fingers, curling them as he felt her walls tensing around him. He took his other hand and wrapped it around her throat, applying pressure until he could feel her pulse throbbing under his grip. Her heart rate was elevated, he noted, as he continued to move his fingers in deep, quick strokes.

He stared at her as she writhed in pleasure beneath his touch; at her mussed hair and swollen lips, at the trail of bites and blooms along her neck and chest. He watched her throw her arms above her head - trusting him completely. And suddenly, he was gone.

She opened her eyes, whimpering at the loss of his touch, and looked down to the bottom of the bed. She sat up and watched him quietly, breathing heavily and biting her lip. The sight of him was divine; moonlight shining through the small window, casting a milky glow across his bare skin, dark curls falling over intense eyes as he stood unbuttoning his trousers. If it weren't for the fact that she could still feel the imprint of his hand around her neck, she would have thought she was dreaming. He let his trousers drop to floor and kicked them aside. She watched as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his underwear, sighing softly as he freed himself from the restricting fabric.

He returned to the bed, crawling up to meet her as she sat waiting, still trembling from his touch. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, as if she were dying and life poured from his lips. She could taste herself on his tongue, unsure if she would ever be able to look at his face again without imagining it buried between her thighs. He took her hair in his fists and pushed her onto her back, his bare chest pressing against her breasts, his knees parting her legs.

She could feel him now, pressing against the thin, wet fabric of her underwear. He rocked his hips forward. She moaned, remembering how his mouth had been there, his fingers. He continued to kiss her, giving another lazy thrust.

"Please," she whispered against his lips, reaching between them and wrapping her hand around his hard length. "Please..."

Sherlock's breath hitched as she grabbed him. He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. He liked to be in control, to understand everything, to know exactly what to expect. But the sound of her soft, wanton voice begging him to take her, he hadn't planned for that. He kissed her again, slipping his hand down and moving her underwear to one side again as she guided him towards her opening. She gave gentle gasp as he entered. Slowly and ever so slightly. He shifted on his knees, placing a hand on the bed either side of her to steady himself.

A groan rattled in his throat as he sank himself into her. She let out a cry, digging her fingers into the backs of his shoulders, stretching as he filled her completely. He rested his forehead on her shoulder as he began to move, his pace agonisingly slow as he continued to slide out almost completely before burying himself inside her again.

She turned to look at him. "Kiss me."

He obliged, moving his forehead from her shoulder to catch kisses between moans and incoherent mumbles. He stroked the hair out of her face, leaving his hand resting on her cheek as he continued to move in slow, deliberate thrusts, each one as satisfying as the last. She took his hand in hers, leading it back towards her neck, like a silent granting of permission. His eyes never left hers as he slightly tightened his grip, watching her as she gave a gentle nod beneath his grasp.

He kissed her again, hungrier, more desperate, as he quickened his pace. She gasped as his thrusts became harder, faster, each one sending an electric current from her core to every nerve ending. Her body ached for him, drawing him in like he belonged there. She closed her eyes, wrapping her hands around the wrist that pinned her to the bed.

She had always thought if she ever got to sleep with him, that she would savour it, take her time. But the moment had carried her away, like a strong tide. She couldn't hold back. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

"Oh god." She could feel it coming, like a wave of pulsating heat. White hot as it tore through her, blurring her vision and forcing cries of pleasure to pour from her open mouth.

He could feel her tightening around him. He slowed down, watching intensely as she trembled beneath him. "Did you..."

She nodded, reaching up and wrapping her hands around the back of his neck. She pulled him into a kiss, feeling his full weight, his still rigid length as it moved torturously slow inside her.

"Don't stop." Her voice was tired, desperate. She raised her hips to meet his thrust, the sensation drawing a hiss from Sherlock's lips. "Please."

She was doing it again, he thought, catching him off guard. He felt her lean forward and bite his shoulder, eliciting a deep, wanton groan in the back of his throat. He gripped her thighs before snapping his hips forward, making her gasp as he drew himself out of her and entered again. She threw her arms around his shoulders, burying her face into the crook of his neck as he continued his hard, unrelenting thrusts. She could feel his hot breath on her shoulder, his voice melting back and forth between whimpers and quiet growls as his rhythm became staggered.

He plunged himself into her, releasing his climax. "Margaux," he moaned, almost incoherently.

But she heard it.

He breathed deeply against her skin, before turning his head and laying a kiss on her neck. A smile crept across her face as she began to run her fingers through his curls; they were wild and dampened with sweat, but she didn't care. He pulled out of her slowly, letting his body fall to her side while his head continued to rest on her shoulder.

She looked down at him, almost bemused by his calm. She knew Sherlock Holmes as intense, erratic, difficult and cold. Even as he had kissed her on the kitchen table, he made it clear that she was nothing more than an experiment. Yet now he lay beside her, his leg draped over hers as he stroked his fingers up and down her bare stomach. She had no doubt that come sunrise, this night would feel like a distant memory. But for now, she was happy to revel in it.


	3. 7.5 // Part 1: Doorstep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Margaux haven't seen each other since the morning after their first night together. When he visits her with the innocent intentions of delivering a cheque, the tension between them becomes hard to ignore.

Margaux checked her watch. It had been another late finish from work, and although she was tired, she hadn't minded the distraction. Working on a case with Sherlock Holmes had left her with a hunger; like she had been starved of excitement and the danger that came with being in the thick of an investigation. Returning to her desk had proven difficult.

They hadn't seen each other since the morning after the ball. Margaux found herself replaying their last moments over and over again in her head; the smirks from John when he realised she had spent the night, the clothes Sherlock had lent for her to travel home in, the awkward goodbye they shared on the landing. Part of her wished she had asked if they could see each other again, though she knew what the answer would have been. And she was glad she had saved herself the embarrassment of being rejected again.

She opened the heavy stairwell door and stepped onto her floor, stopping suddenly when she saw him there. He was standing outside her front door, straight and still like a statue. His face like marble as he stared ahead. She wasn't sure if he hadn't noticed her, or if he were simply pretending she wasn't there.

"Sherlock?"

He turned his head. Their eyes meeting in the middle of the long hallway.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes. I wasn't sure when you were due home so I waited."

"Oh..." She fixed her bag onto her shoulder and made her way towards him. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Somewhat. I stopped keeping track after the first hour."

"The first hour?" She unlocked the door and stepped into her flat, welcoming him inside as she put her things down on the floor. "So do you need my help with something?"

"No I came to give you this." He handed her an envelope.

She opened it, sliding out a piece of paper and letting out a laugh. "You actually wrote me a cheque for the dress..."

"I said I would." He pointed to the amount written on the paper. "I estimated the cost based on the materials, fabric and designer."

"Well you were right. Down to the last penny. Impressive."

He followed her down the hall to the living room. It was the first time he had been inside her home; like he were getting a glimpse into the place where she was most comfortable, most authentic. It was small and cosy - a mix of creams, browns and green houseplants. The walls were decorated with bookshelves and framed pictures, the living room lit by soft, warm lamplight.

"You know I didn't expect you to pay for the dress." She laughed and shook her head. "Things happen in the heat of the moment."

"Yes well, I never intended for things to escalate like they did. If I had shown more restraint, the damage would have never been done."

She paused. "Are we still talking about the dress?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor for a moment before glancing up at her with a slight smile. "Pleasure to see you, Dr Cave." He nodded, before backing out of the room.

"Yeah. Thanks for the reimbursement." She waved the cheque and threw it onto the coffee table.

"You're never going to cash it, are you?"

"Of course I'm not."

"Well I tried."

She followed him to the front door. He stepped out into the hall, turning to look at her as he placed his hands behind his back. His face was smooth and expressionless, the fluorescent lights casting shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and defining the curve in his cupid's bow. She felt a shiver trickle down her back like ice water as she remembered how it felt to have those lips on her; wondering if he knew where her mind was travelling - if his mind ever travelled there too.

"Erm, I have your clothes," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your clothes. The clothes I wore home after we..."

"Oh."

"I'll go and..." her voice trailed off as she disappeared into the flat.

Sherlock took a deep breath and rubbed his mouth with his hand. Being there was dangerous, he had known that. Her doorstep was a threshold and he was teetering on the edge of restraint.

"Here you go," she said as she reappeared at the door.

He took the small bag containing the clothes and nodded his thanks before turning reluctantly to walk away.

"You know..." said Margaux, the words bursting out of her.

He stopped, pivoting on his heels.

"I..." she continued. "I... Don't think I actually told you how much I... had a nice time."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "A... nice time."

"Yeah. What I'm trying to say is that... Well, it's what we both wanted at the time. And I don't regret it. I hope you don't either." She leaned against the door frame and folded her arms. "If you ever need help on a case again, I hope you'll still consider me."

He stood quietly, his face blank and his voice plain. "Of course." He turned away, taking another step before her voice stopped him again.

"Well do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Regret it."

He drew in air through his nose, letting it expand his chest and straighten his back. "Although, that may seem like a relatively simple question, I would struggle to provide you with a yes or no response. Do I regret the pleasure of sexual gratification? No. But do I regret allowing myself to be goaded into relinquishing my self-control? Yes."

"You think I pushed you until you gave in?"

"I think you made romantic advances on me, and luckily for you, it happened during a momentary lapse in my own judgement."

Her mouth opened with a quiet gasp. "Luckily for me."

"What?"

"Nothing." She thought of everything she could say - everything she should say. But instead, she dropped her arms to her sides and gave a defeated a laugh. "I liked you a lot more when your mouth was otherwise occupied..."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means."

They stood staring at each other. Sherlock's fist curled tighter around the handle of the bag, his breaths growing slower and deeper as he fought to keep his mind clear; to stop remembering the way she looked beneath him, the way her body had responded so willingly to his every touch.

The air between them grew thick and hot, enveloping them in a blend of tension and frustration. Margaux's gaze flickered from his eyes to his lips - those lips. The lips that had tainted her for any other man. She exhaled slowly.

A door opened at the bottom of the hall. Their eyes remained on each other as a noisy family spilled out of their flat and gathered outside.

"We should go back inside," said Margaux quietly.

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead he stepped forward, walking slowly into the flat.

"I didn't come here for this." He spoke slowly, his voice deep and coarse.

"For what?" She pushed her back against the door to close it.

"To be... tested."

"Sherlock, no one's testing you except you. The door's right there, no one's keeping you here."

His eyes darted between Margaux and the door. He cleared his throat and started walking towards it. She sighed and stepped aside, watching his hand grip the handle, waiting for him to open it. But he didn't.

Instead he turned to her, grabbing her face in his hands and pulling her into a kiss. She gripped his shoulders to steady herself, pressing her chest flush against his, as if her body had longed to be close to him - ached for his touch. He turned her around and pushed her back against the door, his lips never leaving hers as she undid her coat and took it off quickly.

"I didn't come here for this," he repeated, mumbling as his lips trailed down her jaw to her neck.

"Mhm," she replied, slipping off his coat and undoing the buttons of his shirt.

She wondered if this was how it would always be. Quick, impatient, impulsive. If submitting to him was the signature on the dotted line that sealed every encounter with a kiss against a door, a mess of hands and bare skin. She knew she would get hurt, but still she didn't stop it. Because as much as she knew she was submitting to him, he was submitting to her too. The only difference was that she was willing to admit it.

A haze descended around him, clouding his vision and blocking out the voice in his head telling him to stop. He felt her hot breath against his ear as he slid his hands under her shirt, running his fingers over the indent at the bottom of her back. He dug his nails into her soft flesh, pulling her waist forward and pressing his erection against her stomach. He needed her. He didn't know why, but he would save that mystery for another time.

She had thrown his shirt away, traipsing kisses over his collarbones and taking the skin on his shoulder between her teeth. Sherlock let out a soft hiss, placing one hand on the door beside her head, the other grabbing her face and returning her mouth to his. She wrestled with the button on his trousers, popping it open with shaking fingers before snaking her hand beneath the fabric.

He broke away, glancing down towards the bedroom. "Shall we-"

"Here's fine," she replied breathlessly as she grabbed him. Hard. Unceremoniously. Drawing a deep groan from the back of his throat.

He thrust forward into her grasp, their eyes meeting in a stormy mix of amber and blue as she began to move her hand up and down his length. She grinned as a moan escaped his lips and she felt him melt into her; his elbow unlocking, his full weight pinning her against the door. She was touching him, yet she was the one quivering. It was a testament to his voice; that the rich, dark sounds pouring from his mouth were enough to satisfy her alone. She was sure she could get off on nothing but the sounds of his pleasure.

But he wasn't going to allow that.

She mentally thanked herself for wearing a skirt that day as he ran his other hand down her thigh until he reached the hem. He tugged at the tight material, shifting it up hurriedly until it bunched at her hips, then she helped him slide down her underwear. He took her thigh in his hand and lifted it, bringing her knee up to his waist as he hooked his thumb into his waistband and shifted down his trousers and underwear in one quick movement. She felt his erection spring free against the inside of her thigh. Thick, hot, hard. She wrapped her arms around his neck, steadying herself on one foot as he adjusted his stance.

She was panting in anticipation, throbbing with need as he placed a hand on the side of her neck and used his thumb to caress her pulse. She leaned in, kissing him hungrily, showing him that he didn't have to measure her heart rate to feel her desire, that he could taste it instead. He growled softly against her lips as the tip of his aching erection brushed against her slick folds. She brought her hips forward in a silent plea for him to take her. To not wait any longer.

He yielded and pushed himself inside her, relishing in the sound of her gasp, followed by a delicious moan as she threw her head back. The feeling was divine as he felt her contracting around him, and he took no time before beginning to move in a hard, unrelenting rhythm.

She dug her nails into his back, the hinges creaking behind her as his thrusts forced her lower back to slam against the door. He took her other thigh and lifted her off the ground, wrapping her legs around his waist and hoisting her up, bringing them face to face. The angle was deeper, more intense as he entered again.

"Oh," she cried out. 

He didn't speak, unable to articulate anything more than a grunt or a moan.

"Oh, god, Sherlock."

He had never heard his name drip from someone's lips the way it did from Margaux's. It belonged in her mouth, on her tongue. It was enough to send him over the edge, pushing him dangerously close to the brink of his climax. He buried himself inside her and stayed there, resting his head on her shoulder and breathing heavily.

"Sherlock..." she whimpered.

He let out a moan as he felt her grinding her hips, begging him to keep moving. But he couldn't. Not yet.

"I need a moment," he stuttered the words out, hiding his face in the crook of her neck.

He was like no other man she had been with. If it were any other man, he would have had her; finished inside her and pulled his trousers up with a satisfied smile. But not Sherlock. Even in the height of his own lust, he was still thinking of her, wanting to please her. There was no room for romance in this encounter, only lust and heat resided in the steamy air between them, in the sweat that clung to their skin, yet he still cared. Enough to keep himself from the edge of orgasm until he was sure she was ready to fall off the edge too.

Her fingers found his hair, pulling his head back to give her access to his neck. She leaned down and kissed it, nipping him with her teeth and sucking gently on his smooth skin. She was sure she heard him swear under his breath, a word so alien when uttered by a voice like his.

He slid out of her, almost completely, before pushing his hips forward again. She hummed with pleasure, hugging him tight to keep herself in place as one of his hands left her thigh and reached down between them, finding the place where she was most sensitive and rubbing it in a precise, delicate motion.

"Good?" he asked quietly as he moved his fingers, his hips never losing rhythm.

"Y-yes." She nodded desperately, savouring the heat rising from her core and spreading to every last inch of her body.

The feeling was familiar, yet she never tired of it. The waves of pleasure deep in her stomach, swelling until they crashed; blurring her vision and puckering her flesh with goosebumps.

She cried out. Her arms clung around his neck as he felt her tightening around every inch of him. He removed his hand and grasped her thigh before pushing her firmly against the door and quickening his pace. She was over the edge, and within moments, he joined her. His hips stuttered and his breath hitched as he slowed to a stop, groaning quietly.

Her limbs became soft and limp as he held her there. She was shaking, unsure if her legs would hold when he put her down. She lifted her head and stole a kiss. A soft, gentle kiss.

Just in case it were the last time.


	4. 7.5 // Part 2: Softer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a difficult case, Sherlock finds himself seeking comfort in Margaux.

Quick, impatient, impulsive. Margaux had wondered if it would always be that way.

She tucked her feet under her legs on the couch and blew the steam away from her mug of tea. Her best friend Rose was sitting beside her, listening as she vented.

"Then after that, we just sort of fell into this... routine," said Margaux. "Over the past few months, if either of us ever felt stressed, annoyed, sad, we'd ask to meet. We'll sleep together, then we'll go our separate ways again."

"How many times has it happened?"

"Three. Well, four, but one of the times doesn't really count."

"Why not?"   


She covered her face in embarrassment. "We were in his flat. I was in the middle of giving him a blowjob when his landlady came upstairs looking for him."

Rose snorted out a laugh. Margaux batted her on the arm. "Stop it. It's not funny."

"Yes it is."

"What am I doing, Rose? What even is this weird arrangement we've got going on?"

"I think the Americans would call it a 'bootycall'..."

She laughed. "You think he's using me for sex?"

"Yep. But I think you're using him too. It's great! Enjoy it."

She laughed again, but only for a moment. Her friend watched as she dropped her head, playing awkwardly with a piece of loose thread on her jumper.

"You like him," said Rose, more sincerely.

"I don't know..." 

"If he asked you to be his girlfriend, would you say yes?"

"I think I would."

"So you do like him."

"Okay, I like him. He's... he's just like no one I've ever met. He lacks any shred of people-skills, yet he's somehow so charismatic. He's mysterious and difficult and cold. Intelligent, observant, meticulous-"

"And he's sexy."

Margaux looked at her with a furrowed brow.

"I've seen pictures of him in the paper!" She threw her hands up in surrender. "Who's the little guy he's always with? He's quite sexy too."

"Rose..."

"Sorry."

Margaux sighed, leaning forward and placing her mug down on the coffee table. "This whole thing... I'm going to end up getting hurt aren't I."

"Maybe it's time to nip it in the bud. Put an end to it before you get too attached."

"Yeah. You're right."

  
  


Later that night, Margaux was alone in her flat. She was on the couch, the television playing quietly as she sat with her phone in her hands. His phone number was at the top of the screen, the ticking line waiting for her to start typing. She wrote a text and deleted it. Rewrote it and deleted it again. Eventually, she realised she couldn't do it over the phone. She needed to see him.

 _It's me. I need to talk to you. In person_.

She didn't want to end it. But she had to. To Sherlock, their relationship wasn't even a relationship. It was an agreement, a convenient source of pleasure-on-demand. Her finger hovered over the send button when there was a knock at her front door. She stood up, sent the text and threw her phone on the couch before making her way into the hall.

She opened the door and peered her head around it. There stood Sherlock. He was paler than usual, the blue of his eyes clashing with the irritated red in his waterline.

"Sherlock? Has something happened?" she asked.

He stepped towards her, placed his hands gently on her face and kissed her.

This was wrong. She had just decided that she couldn't do this anymore, yet there she was, welcoming the kiss and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. They staggered together into her flat, enough for Sherlock to close the door with his foot.

She pulled away, placing her hands on his face. "Are you okay?" she whispered.

He avoided her question with another kiss. Softer than he had ever kissed her before. She had been right in her assumption that their encounters would always be quick, impatient, impulsive. But something felt different this time. He needed her. Differently to how he had needed her before. She took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

Moonlight shone through the slats in the blinds, casting a cool blue filter across the dark bedroom. Margaux spread her toes in the plush carpet and drew in a shaking breath as she closed the door quietly. Suddenly, she felt him there. His body against her back, his arm reaching around to lay his slender fingers over her hand as she gripped the door handle.

His breath sent a shiver down her back as he brought his lips close to her ear. Her muscles tightened in anticipation as she waited for him to bite at her lobe or suck bruises onto her flesh. But he didn't. Instead she felt his lips press gently against her ear, trailing kisses down her jaw and finding her neck. She tilted her head back against his shoulder and he sighed warm air into the crook of her neck.

Goosebumps pricked her arms and she knew he sensed them too. By now, Sherlock knew her body like a well-travelled map. He had stored every plain of her - every short-cut and curve lived inside his mind palace. He knew exactly what he was doing, no movement unthought out. He knew the route he wanted to take and he knew the signs - the rising of hairs on arms, the weakening of knees. He knew the language of her moans and what each incoherent swearword translated to.

She pushed herself back against him, feeling his growing arousal pressing against her lower back. He groaned at the friction, his voice vibrating against her skin. She took his hand as it rested on top of hers and brought it to the waistline of her trousers.

"You're rushing," he said, taking her by the hips and turning her around to face him.

He pushed her back gently, stroking her cheek delicately with his finger. He was breathless, his gaze stern and heavy as he looked down at her moonlit face. Something was different. She could feel it in the softness of his touch, the tension in his jaw.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she slid her arms around the back of his neck. "I'm sorry, I just thought since we always-"

"Please... Don't rush. Not this time."

She looked up at him, her eyes round and glassy. "Okay."

His lips trembled as he leaned in slowly. But as they began to kiss, his tentativeness melted away, as if he were frightened and she was a safe place for him to hide in. She took his hand and led him over to the bed, sitting down on the edge and watching as he removed his coat and kicked off his shoes.

"Sherlock, are you sure you're alright?"

"Please, Margaux, stop. Can you just... be here? Present in this moment. With me. Please."

She paused for a moment. "Of course," she finally replied.

He continued to undress, unbuttoning his shirt and letting his trousers fall into a heap on the ground. She followed his lead, lifting her top over her head and shimmying her own trousers down her legs. He sat on the bed beside her, his presence hitting her with a sudden wave of shyness. He had touched every inch of her, tasted her desire as her moans rang in his ears, yet something about this moment - they way they sat quietly beside each other in their underwear - was the most intimate thing they had ever done.

He reached over, using his index finger to turn her head towards him, guiding her face closer until he could kiss her. It was gentle. Soft and tender like he were savouring the feeling of her lips against his. She grabbed his thigh as his hand curled around the back of her head to keep her in place. The first time they ever slept together, she remembered the feeling of holding him tight. Like she feared he would disappear if she let go. Now she felt that fear in him, wanting more than anything to show him that she wasn't going anywhere. She was present in this moment. With him. Just like he asked.

They fell back onto the bed, deepening their kiss until their breaths grew heavy, their hearts thudding as their chests pressed against each other. She pushed him onto his back using her full weight to pin him to the bed. Her skin tingled as he ran his hands over her back, finding the clasp of her bra and unhooking it with ease. She slipped off the straps and threw it to the ground before reaching down to the waistline of his underwear. But before she could slip her hand beneath the fabric, he pushed her onto her back.

"Rushing again," he muttered as his lips trailed down her body in feather soft kisses.

As his tongue travelled over her breasts, sucking lightly on her nipples and continuing down over her stomach, she realised she didn't know how not to rush. Every time they slept together, it had been a storm of messy kisses, a tearing of clothes, a race to have him inside her. It was as if they both knew the moment was temporary, and as quickly as the heat rose between them, it would die down again. Like a fire turning to embers. But this was different. He was taking his time. Not because he wanted to be precise, but because he wanted to savour it.

Her fingers curled into his hair as he positioned himself between her legs, kissing the inside of her thighs as he pulled down her underwear. He glanced up at her, but for once he wasn't assessing her reaction. He was communicating with her. Asking her to trust him, to allow him to take his time. She stroked the hair out of his eyes and nodded. Like a silent granting of permission.

She threw her head back and gave a satisfied groan as he pressed his mouth against her centre, sweeping his tongue and letting out a deep hum as if he were sharing her satisfaction. Her back arched as his tongue curled and stroked at the bud that ached for him, sending a shudder through her body and causing her thighs to tighten around his head. He took her legs in his hands and pulled them apart, pushing his mouth deeper, lapping and sucking, drawing pleasure from her moans, from her fists tugging at his hair. She could feel herself unraveling and he sensed it too; in the incoherent whispers, his name leaving her lips in nothing more than a whimper.

An electric current ran through every nerve and she realised she couldn't keep her eyes open. She was dancing on the edge of climax, and with the softest flick of his tongue, he pushed her over. She became silent. Her mouth fell open but no sound left her, as if her senses had been shut down and overridden with pleasure.

He pulled away, watching her chest rise and fall as she rode out her orgasm beneath him. He found himself doubting what he was seeing; she had never come so quickly before, and he hadn't wanted to rush.

"I... need you," she stuttered through heavy breaths.

He didn't respond.

"Sherlock," she cried.

He surrendered, crawling up her body until their eyes met. His mouth was slick, his lips full and swollen as she took his face in her hands and kissed him. She bucked her hips against him. He was hard. Achingly so. He closed his eyes, sucking the air in through his teeth.

"Impatient," he growled.

She kissed him and spread her palms across his chest. "We can be slow." She kissed him again, rolling him over onto his back. " _Agonisingly_ slow."

Her fingers tickled his hips as she hooked them into the waistband of his underwear. He lay there as she kissed him, sighing beneath her lips as he felt his erection spring free from the tight fabric. He shimmied them down his legs and kicked them away, groaning softly at the feeling of her climbing on top of him, slick and ready for him as she rubbed herself against him.

She reached down between them, wrapping her fingers around his length and positioning him at her opening. He grasped her hips as she rested her hands on his shoulders, the pair moaning together as she sank down, taking every inch of him to the hilt. She leaned forward, laying her chest against his and burying her face in the crook of his neck as she began to move. Keeping her promise. Agonisingly slow.

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, his mouth falling open as he felt her tightening around him, her breath hitching in his ear between gentle cries. The need to look at her overcame him. He wanted to see her face, to look into her eyes. He wrapped his arms around her back and sat up, keeping her in his lap, his full length still inside her as her hips rocked back and forth. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful, but the words wouldn't leave him. Instead he kissed her before resting his forehead against hers.

They moved together as the moon shone through the window, the room echoing with heavy breaths and the slight creak of the bed frame. Their eyes remained connected with an intense heat, his fingers kneading into the flesh of her hips as he encouraged her to roll onto her back.

Her body sank into the thick duvet as she relished in the feeling of his full weight on top of her. With a snap of his hips, he was inside her again, driving into her with slow, controlled thrusts. A shiver rippled from her core, so strong he felt it too, as if it were an electric current travelling between them. She pulled his face down to hers, his name rolling from her lips as she kissed him.

It was all it took for him to break. His rhythm became staggered, his mind glazing over as if every cell in his body was exploding with pleasure and he couldn't focus on anything else.

"I can't... hold on..." he stammered between kisses.

Margaux ran her hands over his back, splaying her fingers across the supple skin that lay taught over his toned muscles. She couldn't respond, instead she let out a satisfied groan as she felt him drive into her one last time before slowing completely and collapsing on top of her.

He wasn't sure how long he remained there. Spent, lying between her legs as she kissed the side of his face and used her fingers to brush back his hair which was curly and damp with sweat. He turned his head, catching her lips with his own as he pulled out and rolled onto his side.

She lay still and closed her eyes, completely content in their silence and comforted by the sounds of his laboured breaths. She felt his fingers tracing swirls over her stomach - a sign that he was thinking, usually about her.

"Sherlock," she began quietly. "That felt different..."

"Different how?" he replied, his voice raspier than usual.

"I don't know. Just different."

He sat up and climbed off the bed, stumbling through the dark to find his clothes. She listened as he rummaged through his trousers, closing her eyes as his phone screen illuminated the room.

"I have a text from you," he said.

She didn't say anything.

"You needed to talk to me?" He looked down at her, his strong bone structure softened by the moonlight sweeping through the window.

"Oh..." she thought for a moment. "It was nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She nodded, sitting herself up.

He locked the phone and put it back in his pocket before sitting on the edge of the bed with his trousers in his hand. She shuffled up, bringing her knees to her chest as she sat at his side.

"I absolved a man of his wife's murder today," said Sherlock.

"Oh... Wow."

He turned his head to look at her. "I wanted to see you. I hope you don't mind that."

She smiled, glancing down at their naked bodies. "Something tells me I don't mind."

He laughed through his nose.

"Sherlock, will you stay?"

He sighed, looking down at the crumpled trousers in his hand, then up to Margaux; at her tousled hair and glistening skin. He let go of the trousers and lay back on the bed, extending his arm for her to cuddle into his side.


	5. Chapter 19.5 // The Night Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sherlock and Margaux, the night of John and Mary's wedding ended in a blazing row. When Sherlock turns up at her hotel room to apologise, they find themselves right back where they always seem to end up.

He walked along the dark path leading out of the venue grounds. The air was still; the faint murmur of the wedding party grew quieter as the sound of traffic hummed in the distance like the rushing of long grass. But as quiet as the May night seemed, inside his mind there was nothing but chaos.

_I solved cases for you, I was there for you the second you asked me to be... I was almost killed because of you._

He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply.

_I grieved for you, raised your son by myself, and then I let you back into both of our lives when you decided it was a good idea to come back._

He tried to shake away her voice as he continued to walk along the path.

_You flirt with me when you're bored, you say the most hurtful things like it's nothing, you treat me like a stranger when it suits you, and now... Now, you have the audacity to be upset that I met someone else? Well, let me tell you something, Sherlock. You don't get that luxury. You're not entitled to that._

He saw the pain her eyes, the tears laced with anger that she refused to let fall onto her cheeks. He clenched his jaw until his teeth began to ache.

_You don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me either, right? Well there you go. It seems as though I don't want anyone else to have me either._

"Stop," he muttered to himself angrily, pushing two fingers against his temple. "Just stop. Be quiet. Shut up."

He walked quickly along the country road until he reached a busy street. He stood on the pavement, waiting to hail a cab when a cold breeze danced past his face. He flicked up the collar of his coat. The coat he had draped over her shoulders as she shouted at him. It smelled like her; the faint scent of perfume in the fabric like her voice had weaved through his mind.

A black cab turned onto the street. But he wasn't raising his hand. He huffed, the air leaving him in a low growl as he watched the headlights pass him, and before he could think, his feet were moving again. Back towards the venue.

*

He stepped onto her floor and began walking down the corridor when he noticed a young woman in hotel uniform standing outside her door. He stopped and backed up around the corner, leaning against the wall until he heard the door close and the woman's footsteps disappear.

He emerged again, walking quickly down the corridor and stopping outside her room, balling his fist and knocking quietly.

Margaux opened the door. She had let her hair down, allowing it to fall in loose waves over her shoulders. Her lipstick had faded, her eye makeup smudged at the corners, yet somehow she still looked beautiful. He watched her shift aside to let him come in, but his feet remained rooted to the carpet.

"Hi..." she said timidly.

His throat tightened. He hadn't prepared anything to say, he didn't quite know why he was even there.

"I just came to tell you I'm sorry," he began, allowing his lips to move freely, without the chains of thought holding him back. "My behaviour was unjustified. Above all else, you are the mother of my child and you deserve to be treated with a level of respect that I did not display."

She took a deep breath. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

He pivoted on his heels and walked away, feeling an ache in his chest as he heard the door close behind him.

_You don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me either, right?_

No, he thought, she was wrong. He had never cared much about people understanding him, taking him the wrong way. But the thought of Margaux believing he didn't want her - he couldn't stand it. She needed to know why.

He turned around, marched back down the corridor and knocked again. This time, when she opened the door, he walked straight past her into the room.

"I fear..." he began quietly as he paced back and forth, struggling to let the words leave him. "I fear I may become lost in you..."

She looked at him in amazement, understanding how hard it had been for him to say those words. "I've been lost in you for years," she finally replied. "Maybe it's where we're meant to be."

He stared at her for a moment before approaching tentatively. She remained still with her back against the door, careful not to move in case she scared him away, like a deer scarpering at the sound of snapping branches. He took a final step, bringing them face to face, and brought his hand to her cheek. He was cold, almost trembling as he brushed his fingers over her cheek, her jaw, and weaved them into her hair. Finally, he leaned down and kissed her. For two years, Sherlock had never forgotten the way her lips felt against his. Like a bruise, the ache remained long after the last time she kissed him.

It had been so long, yet still they melted together as if no time had passed at all. Her hands cupped the back of his neck as he tugged gently on her hair, tilting her head back to kiss her with ease. She pulled away, taking a breath as she looked into his eyes, wondering what this meant, and if he was going to leave again. But it was as if he knew what she was thinking, answering her worries by taking her hands in his and squeezing them gently.

They moved to the bedroom where he kicked off his shoes as she began to unfasten his waistcoat and shirt, releasing each button with shaking, nervous fingers. He stood quietly, allowing her to take her time as he stared down at her face - the face he had thought about every day for the two years he had been away. Finally, she tossed his shirt aside and flattened her hands against his torso, remembering back to the first time she ever touched him like that; the outline of his ribs, the slender arms, the way her palms could almost completely cover his lean chest. But he was so different now - broader, harder. His shoulders were rounded and muscular, his arms thicker and more defined.

"You're so different," she whispered.

"It's been a long time," he whispered back as he weaved his fingers into her hair and tilted her head back to look at him.

"I missed you," she said.

"I've been back for a while."

"Not like this..."

They fell into a slow, desperate kiss. The kind that could only be shared by two people who had almost lost each other.

Sherlock took her by the waist and guided her to the bed. She lay on her back, welcoming the feeling of his stronger frame resting on top of her as he continued to kiss her. He slid his hand inside her dressing gown and caressed her bare skin - she had changed too, her breasts were fuller, her hips more curved. This body had given him a son. The notion made him admire it even more than he already did. He ran his fingers up eagerly towards her breasts.

She stopped him gently. "Sherlock," she said, breaking their kiss.

He stared down at her breathlessly. "Yes?"

"You really hurt me today."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I accept your apology, I do. But I don't... I don't know if I fully forgive you yet."

"I understand." He sighed and rose up onto his knees. "Should I go?"

"No."

"I'm..." He furrowed his brow. "I'm slightly confused."

"Sometimes one feeling can outweigh another. I'm upset with you, yet I still want to be... _with_ you." She sat up, bringing them face-to-face again. "I just- I needed you to understand that."

He nodded. "I do."

"Okay. Good."

They remained quiet for a moment before slowly coming together again, breathing heavily as their lips met, their hands fumbling over each other's bodies. He peeled the dressing gown off her shoulders and leant down to kiss her bare collarbone, remembering the exact spot that made her body shiver and her skin prick with goosebumps. She closed her eyes and let out a soft hum of pleasure, slipping her arms out of her sleeves and letting the fabric fall to the bed. He grabbed it and threw it away, pushing her onto her back and trailing kisses down to her bare breasts.

It had been over two years since they last slept together, yet still she recognised his need for control; the way she lay naked beneath him while he was still half-dressed, the way he would revel in pleasuring her, as if her satisfaction was more arousing to him than his own. She groaned as he took her nipple in his mouth, letting his teeth graze over it as he released it and moved to the other. He trailed his tongue down her body, sucking on the skin that covered her ribs until she let out a soft hiss.

She threw her head back and closed her eyes. "This isn't fair," she whispered.

"Why not?" he asked as he continued to travel further down.

"You always get to go first."

He looked up at her, almost smirking, before crawling back up her body and bringing them eye-to-eye.

"That's because..." he began as he slid his hand down between them.

She gasped as she felt his fingers on her, rubbing slowly at first before slipping inside. Her body shuddered, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

"You are capable of something I'm not," he finished.

She let out a moan and threw her arms above her head, gripping the bars of the wooden headboard.

"You are able to come undone, again, and again, and again..." he said, his eyes never leaving hers as he moved his fingers with a steady rhythm that matched his words.

She writhed beneath him, unsure if she had ever heard anything sexier than Sherlock's deep, gravelly voice in her ear as he touched her. She wasn't certain if it was even intentional, or if he were simply stating facts. Either way, she knew this moment would play over in her mind for a very long time.

His eyes darted across her face, storing every reaction, every expression. She turned her head to the side and pulled a pillow over her mouth in an attempt to stay quiet. But he kept going; ignoring the ache in his wrist as he curled his fingers with delicious accuracy.

She cried out, her voice muffled by the pillow as her hips jerked forward, her back arching as she gave in to the pleasure swelling from her core. Sherlock moved the pillow and turned her head to look at him; he wanted to see her fall apart, to hear her voice clearly as it cried his name.

She wasted no time in sitting up, taking him by the shoulders and pushing him back. Her breath was ragged, her kisses forceful and desperate.

"Take these off," she said assertively, hooking a finger into his waistband.

It caught him off guard. But there was something about the demand in her tone that made him oblige without resistance. He unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down, kicking them off with haste. He inhaled sharply as she grabbed him through his underwear, applying just enough pressure to elicit a growl in the back of his throat. He watched as she moved down his body, laying light, tickling kisses as she went. She tugged down his underwear and freed him from the tight, uncomfortable fabric.

Usually at this point, he would tell her she was being impatient. He would fight to regain control; grab her and throw her on her back, wrap his hand around her throat. But there was a need in her, so palpable that he could feel it too, and the sight of her knelt between his legs was enough to make him yield.

She curled her fingers around his length before dragging her tongue from base to tip. His breath hitched as he felt her plush lips parting around him, taking in as much of him as she could. He let his head fall back, his hands finding their way into her hair as he set a steady pace - always in control.

She was the first woman he had ever allowed to do this. The idea of relinquishing himself and trusting someone completely with his own pleasure had never appealed to him, perhaps even scared him. As he lay on the bed, eyes closed, relishing in the feeling of her mouth around him, he thought back to the first time. She had turned up late at 221B, flustered and frustrated after a difficult day at work. And before he knew it, she was on her knees, devouring him as his fingers clung to the leather armrests of his chair.

He snapped out of his flashback as a pressure began to build. He was throbbing, aching with a heat that continued to grow with every ministration. He tugged her head back gently. 

"What's wrong?" she asked as she looked up at him. 

He shook his head. "I was- I was going to..." 

Her eyes remained on him, wide and yearning as he ran his thumb over her bottom lip, picturing where her mouth had just been. It made him shudder. 

She crawled up his body, bringing them face-to-face as she straddled his hips and leant down to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around her and rolled them over, taking her hands and pinning them above her head. She squirmed with pleasure as he began to kiss her neck, then suddenly, with the snap of his hips, he buried himself inside her. 

Her breath caught in her throat as he filled her completely. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and let out a muffled moan against her skin, slipping his fingers between hers and squeezing her hands as they remained pinned above her head.

"Oh, my- god..." she stammered, struggling to make the sound leave her. 

He began to move in hard thrusts, each one sending a jolt through her stomach that travelled like bursting fireworks to every limb. He was pounding himself into her, as if he had thought of nothing else but this moment for the past two and a half years. When she led him into the bedroom that night, he had been gentle, soft and patient. He had planned to hold her, their bodies connecting slowly and intimately as he kissed her tenderly and made up for the hurt he had caused. But something had taken over them - as if they were bewitched by a ferocious desire to feel every single inch of one another. She brought her arms down, snaking them around his broad back and digging her nails into his flesh. He moaned as pleasure blended with pain, the sensation driving his unrelenting pace. 

"Sherlock," she breathed. "I'm..." 

She threw her head back and covered her mouth in an attempt to keep herself quiet. He felt her tightening around him, her back arching, breath shaking, thighs squeezing against his sides. It was divine; a scene so breathtaking, he couldn't quite believe it was only for him. He was sure he could make her come a thousand times and never tire of the sight. Soon after, he began to feel his own climax building - a throbbing wave of heat that made him groan and bite down on her shoulder. 

She closed her eyes and let out a whimper before placing her hands on his face and pulling him down to kiss her. He slowed his thrusts until eventually he was completely still, resting his forehead against hers and taking a moment to make sure she was okay. He placed a hand over hers as it cupped his face, using his other to stroke her hair gently. After a few minutes, Margaux sighed contently as a satisfied smile curled the corners of her mouth. Sherlock smiled too before pulling out and rolling onto his side. 

So much had changed since he went away. But the moments that followed sex were still the same; quiet, calm and intimate. 

*

Sherlock opened his eyes, just enough to see the blurred image of Margaux slipping back into the dark room. She closed the door over, leaving it slightly ajar, and walked back to bed.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," she whispered.

"Was something the matter?" he croaked.

She shook her head. "Just checking on him. He's fast asleep."

He let out a sleepy groan and rolled onto his side, his eyes fighting to stay open as he felt her climb in next to him. He hadn't remembered falling asleep, but the room was still pitch black, so it couldn't have been for long. She lay down facing him and smiled, secretly savouring the moment of normalcy between them.

His eyes remained closed as he leaned in, kissing her gently but without hesitation. She sighed against his lips, moving closer until their bodies were pressed against each other. He reached up and placed a hand on her face, deepening the kiss as he felt himself beginning to swell with need. She felt it too, her brows raising curiously at the feeling of him pressing against her thigh.

He rolled onto his back as she positioned herself on top of him, the bedsheets pooling around her hips. She sank down, taking all of him to the hilt as they moaned in harmony. He ran his hands over her waist and hips as she leaned back, the pair moving together sleepily as the moon shone through the window. 


	6. Chapter 33.5 // Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After killing Charles Augustus Magnussen, Sherlock has no choice but to go away, forever. On his final night before being exiled, he pays a visit to Margaux.

The last time she thought she'd lost him, she thought about everything she wished she'd said. The missed moments, the lingering glances that could have led somewhere but instead got overlooked and brushed away. This time she knew that he was leaving before it happened. But it didn't hurt any less.

She climbed up off the couch and held her hand out to him. He took it, letting her pull him to his feet and bring them face to face again. She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and dragged him into a kiss. It was desperate and hungry, knocking him off balance. He gripped her waist to steady himself, breaking away when he felt her body pressing against him.

"I'd like to actually make it to the bedroom," he said.

She laughed softly before nodding and taking his hand again. She led him out of the living room and across the narrow hallway, stopping at her bedroom door and turning to him.

"What?" he asked.

She stared up at him for a moment, thinking back to what he'd said when he first arrived.

_I want to build you a room._

_I'm getting my own room in the mind palace?_

_Yes. I want to remember everything._

"Nothing," she finally said as she grabbed the door handle and let them inside.

Sherlock closed the door and turned around, his eyes falling on Margaux as she stood in the middle of the room, fidgeting with her hands and shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"Why do you seem so nervous?" he asked.

"Because I am," she replied. "I'm feeling a lot of pressure."

"Why?"

"Because..." she walked up to him, sliding her arms around his shoulders as she spoke. "Anything we do tonight ends up in there." She tapped her finger gently against his temple.

"Everything we've ever done is already in here," he replied matter-of-factly.

" _Everything_?"

"Yes. I store each experience and optimise what I learn from them. It's the best way to elicit effective responses and-"

"Very sexy..." she interrupted sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes. "Alright..." he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the ground.

She let out a squeal as he hoisted her up, gripping her thighs to keep her in place.

"In layman's terms, since you clearly need me to break it down for you, it's how I know what 'turns you on'. It's how I know that you run your hands through my hair when you desire intimacy. Or... that you prefer to kiss on _this_ side," he tilted her head to the left and lay a soft kiss on her lips, before walking them to the bed and dropping her onto it. "It's how I know that this..." he crawled on top of her and kissed the hollow above her collarbone.

She let out a soft moan.

"Makes you do that," he finished before moving his mouth to her earlobe. "And this..." he mumbled as he bit it. "Creates these." He ran his hand up her arm puckered with goosebumps.

"What else?"

He furrowed his brow. "You want me to give you an itemised breakdown of your own turn-ons?"

"Yes." She said with a slight smirk.

"Alright..." he thought for a moment. "Well, I know you like it when I take control. Which is good because _I_ like it when I take control."

She giggled.

"And I know if you're aroused enough, I could push you over the edge just by talking in your ear." He paused. "I know if you dig your nails into my skin, it means you want it harder."

She shuddered, letting out a heavy breath.

"There's the 'just talking' thing I mentioned..." he said.

"Arrogant."

"Another turn-on."

"Only because I'm usually thinking about ways to make you shut up," she replied as she sat up and weaved her fingers into his hair.

As she tugged on his dark curls, she was fully aware that she was proving his deductions right. But she didn't care. Because now wasn't the time for point-scoring. In the morning he would be gone, and she didn't want to regret how she chose to spend their last moments together.

"I know your turn-ons too," she said, climbing into his lap and wrapping her legs around his waist.

'Mm," he shook his head, talking against her lips as she kissed him. "I don't think I give as much away as you do."

"Really? Hm, well... I know you like it when I moan your name, or when I bite your shoulder, just here. And I can always tell _exactly_ what mood you're in just by the way you kiss me..."

"Obvious things."

She raised an eyebrow. "Okay." She took his hand and put it on her neck. "You do this so you can feel my heart rate rising. But really, I think you just like the way I look with your hand around my throat."

His breath quivered. He ran his thumb over her pulse, feeling the sudden desire to kiss where it throbbed beneath his touch, to bite, to suck blooms across the soft flesh - to mark her.

Even in the dimly-lit room, she could see the intensity in his face, the hunger in his eyes as he swelled beneath her. She leaned forward and kissed him, grinding against him and smiling when she drew a groan from his lips.

"I'm going to miss that sound," she whispered.

There was a flash of worry across her face, like she wished she could take back what she had said, go back to ignoring the fact that this was the last time she'd have him in her bed, the last time she'd get to touch him like this, to feel his lips on hers.

He ran his hands up her back beneath her jumper, holding her tighter, like he was comforting her; reassuring her that it was okay. He _was_ leaving. But right now he was here, and he wasn't going anywhere.

He yanked at her jumper and pulled it over her head. She responded by unbuttoning his shirt, laying kisses over his shoulders as she peeled the material away from him. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and tugged her head back to expose her throat - he had wanted to mark her, for this encounter to linger on her body long after he went away. She gasped as he drew her skin into his mouth, closing her eyes and basking in the mix of pleasure and pain.

He lifted her off him and climbed off the bed. She watched quietly as he unbuckled his belt and slid it out of his trousers. The sound of the leather whipping through the fabric sending a shiver of excitement to her core.

"Jeans," he said.

That single word told her everything she needed to know - this wasn't about romance, it never really was with Sherlock - this was about need. He needed to have her, to leave no part of her untouched, no desire unmet.

She unbuttoned her jeans and thrust her hips forward, shimmying them down her thighs and kicking them to the floor. She sat up on the edge of the bed and reached out for him, pulling him closer by the waistband of his trousers. He was aching for her.

She slid off the bed onto her knees, tugging his trousers and underwear down as she went. He let out a sigh as she freed him from the fabric, wrapped her hand around his length and gripped it tight. She looked up at him, their eyes meeting as she took him in her mouth.

He threw his head back and closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind clear as he focused on the way her lips moved - the swirling of her tongue and the light, careful grazing of her teeth. He forced himself to look down, almost losing his composure at the sight of her knelt at his feet. She pulled back, taking in a gasp of air as his hand found its way to the back of her head.

"Can I?" he whispered.

She nodded before continuing, this time feeling his hands holding her head still as he thrust himself into her mouth. He was moaning quietly, holding back as he always did, but as she stifled a choke, spluttering and digging her fingers into his thighs, it was as if something ignited inside of him. He took her face in his hands and pulled her up on her feet, into a hot, forceful kiss that made her stomach flutter and her knees buckle.

He turned her around and bent her over the edge of the bed, tugging down her underwear as she gripped the duvet in her fists. She was expecting his impatience to take over, like it had done so many times before. But instead, she felt his lips on the small of her back, trailing down until he was laying hungry kisses on the backs of her thighs.

A satisfied groan poured from her mouth as he parted her legs and began working his tongue into her centre.

"Oh... my... god," she sighed, letting her eyes roll and her mouth fall open.

She had always wanted to ask him how he became so good at this. The question circling her mind but never managing to reach the surface. She wondered if he was more experienced than he liked to let on, or if his ability to study and store information had led to him knowing exactly what he was doing without the need to practice.

He stood up, wiping his mouth crudely with the back of his hand. She looked over her shoulder, watching as he palmed himself quietly, his eyes never leaving her body. He placed a hand on her hip, his other hand guiding himself into her. She sank her face into the bed, moaning as he buried himself to the hilt. He was gripping her waist, pulling her back as he pushed forward, their bodies crashing together over and over again.

She turned her head to the side. "Pull my hair."

He obliged without hesitation, taking a fistful of hair and pulling on it roughly. Her back arched as she propped herself up on her hands, swearing under her breath as he drove deeper inside of her.

He pulled out suddenly and let go of her hair, the loss of contact making her cry out in protest. She collapsed face-first onto the bed before rolling over and shuffling back towards the headboard.

"You're mean," she panted.

"I'm pacing myself," he replied as he brushed his dampened curls out of his eyes.

He climbed onto the bed and crawled up her body, laying between her legs and letting his weight rest on top of her. She reached up and took his face in her hands, pulling him down into a kiss.

"You shouldn't hold back," she whispered.

"If I didn't, this would be over by now."

She laughed softly.

He trailed his lips down her jaw to her neck. She bucked her hips in a desperate attempt for friction, succeeding when she heard a growl in the back of his throat. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him as close to her as she could, before whispering his name wantonly in his ear.

Her voice tingled, sending a shiver down his spine. She knew exactly what she was doing - if this were a game, he thought, she would be winning. He lifted his head and returned his lips to hers, kissing her passionately as he snaked his hand down between them to guide himself back inside her.

She moaned softly as he sank into her, keeping her legs around his waist. His hands found hers, raising them above her head and pinning them to the bed as he moved, savouring the feeling of her tightening around him. He rested his forehead on hers, breathing heavily and looking into her eyes.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, almost inaudibly.

She wondered if it had been a slip of the tongue; if he was just supposed to think it yet accidentally let it fall from his lips. Or if the fact that he was never going to see her again filled him with a need to tell her, to see her reaction so he could store it in his mind palace and replay the moment when he was alone. She moved one of her hands from his grasp and stroked his face, silently acknowledging it but not daring to reply with words. She knew he thought she was beautiful. He had said it to her before in passing. But to hear it like this, as their bodies connected, it was like a confirmation - Perhaps this was more than just sex after all.

He rose onto his knees, holding onto her thighs as he continued to drive himself into her. She moaned loudly and covered her mouth to muffle the sound as the deeper angle sent a shockwave through her body.

"Don't stop," she cried.

Even if she hadn't said the words, he would still know she was close to the edge. It was in the change in her moans, the look on her face. He could feel it in the way her hips moved, how her hands reached for something to hold onto. He focused on her face, watching as she came apart beneath him before slowing to a stop and allowing her a moment to ride out her orgasm. He lay on top of her, feeling her chest rising and falling as it pressed against his. She was trembling, as if the pleasure had overridden every nerve and replaced them with pure electricity.

She tapped his chest, instructing him to get up. He rose to his knees before sitting down in the middle of the bed. She followed, draping her arms over his shoulders and straddling him as they began to kiss again. She moved her hips, grinding against his hard length as if she were teasing him, seeing how far she could push him before he broke.

Sherlock groaned as he ran his hands up and down her back. He unclipped her bra and slid it off before traipsing his tongue over her breasts. Her neck and collarbones were covered in speckled red welts, like a map of the places he had kissed. But her breasts were soft and bare - untouched. He decided to change that, almost smiling when she let out a hiss as he began to mark her with his mouth.

She slid forward in response, catching the head of his erection and sinking down onto it without warning. He buried his face in her chest and groaned, grabbing her hips forcefully as she began to pick up speed.

"No one..." she began, struggling to speak as they moved together. "No one else will ever..."

He stopped her with a kiss, like a silent plea for her not to say it. Partly because he didn't want to acknowledge the fact that he was leaving, but mostly because the thought of her moving on, of being with anyone else like this, was too much to bare.

She broke away, pressing her forehead against his. "Sherlock..."

"Don't," he whispered into the crook of her neck before rolling her onto her back.

He could feel himself losing control, the pressure swelling and spreading through his body, causing him to lose rhythm. His hips jutted as he moaned against her lips, releasing himself inside her as she dug her nails into his back.

*

They lay together in the dark. A tangle of bare limbs and bedsheets. Margaux loved the moments that followed sex; it was a time where she truly caught a glimpse of Sherlock, like she was a welcomed visitor behind the cold, unyielding wall that surrounded him.

He lay with his head resting on her bare chest, caressing her upper arm and running his fingers across her small hand-poked tattoo.

"What is it?" he asked quietly. "I've often tried to work it out."

She giggled softly. "It's the symbol for Libra."

Even through the darkness she knew his face had scrunched in distain.

"I didn't know you were into all that," he said.

"I'm not really. I was seventeen, drunk at a party, and this guy I barely knew did it for me with a sewing needle and ink from a ballpoint pen. I'd read a bit about my star sign and it _is_ pretty accurate."

He traced the outline of the tattoo with his fingertip, noticing the bumps and ridges where skin met ink.

"Libras are charming, romantic, indecisive, fair..." she said as she ran her fingers through his curls.

"Mhm. As are many people who are _not Libras_."

"Yours is pretty accurate too. Independent, analytical, assertive, impulsive, unpredictable, _stubborn_."

"You know a lot for someone who's not that into astrology."

She turned on her side to face him. "You can stick _'knows useless facts about star signs'_ in my room." She tapped her finger against his forehead.

He grabbed her hand and moved it away from his head before leaning in to kiss her. "I don't think I'll bother saving that one," he said against her lips.

She smiled before pulling away and climbing off the bed. He lay there watching as she rummaged through the dark, her bare skin glowing in the moonlight shining through the window. She held up his shirt and turned to him.

"Would you mind?"

He shook his head.

She slipped it on and fastened a couple of buttons, flicking her hair out from the collar.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Toilet. Is that okay?" she said sarcastically.

He rolled his eyes with a smile and turned over, burying his face in a pillow.

Margaux stepped out of the room, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light of the hallway. She made her way into the bathroom, flicking on the light and taking a moment to stare at herself in the mirror. Her hair was wild and tangled, lips puffy, neck covered in red marks. She liked how she looked - completely and utterly satisfied. But still, she decided to turn on the shower. She took off the shirt and folded it neatly, tied her hair up and climbed in.

When she got out, she dried herself off with a towel before slipping Sherlock's shirt back on. She bundled the material in her hands and brought it to her face, inhaling the faint scent of him that clung to the fabric. She made her way back down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door, her heart sinking as she laid eyes on the empty bed. She hurried across to the living room, but he wasn't there either. Her breathing quickened as she rushed towards the kitchen, letting out a relieved sigh when she saw him there. He was at the counter with his back to her, standing barefoot in his unbuttoned trousers. He turned around with a glass of water in his hand.

"I... I thought you left," said Margaux quietly.

"I can't leave," he replied plainly, as if he hadn't registered her panic. "You have my shirt."

She looked down at the shirt hanging loosely off her body. "Oh, right yeah."

He took a large gulp of the water and leant back against the counter as she wandered over to the window. She peered down onto the street below, counting the cars.

"Are they still there?" he asked.

She nodded, trying to fight the wave of sadness that was building up inside.

Sherlock chuckled to himself. "I'm being exiled from the country for killing a man. Can't help but feel like it's a bit late for all the surveillance."

She didn't reply, instead she stayed put staring out the window.

"Margaux? What's the matter?"

"I'm just..." she took a deep breath, wiping away a tear that had escaped onto her cheek. "Wondering why I keep doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Letting myself get close to you to just be pushed away again."

"I'm not pushing you away, I'm being... taken. By force."

She giggled softly through the sadness. "Let's not pretend you'd stay if you weren't."

He was puzzled, his brows coming together over his eyes.

"You know what I mean by _stay,"_ she added as she turned to look at him.

He sighed. "Margaux, you are one of the most important people in my life."

She'd never heard him say that before.

"They tried to get me to leave today and I made them halt the flight just so I could come here first," he said.

"Because your son is here."

"And you."

"I want to believe you, Sherlock, but-"

"Margaux, I just made love to you and you're questioning where my motives lie?"

'Made love'. She wondered if it was another slip of the tongue.

"Sherlock, you say I'm important to you... You come here telling me you're making me a room up there so I'm always with you. But I've been here. All this time."

"You know I don't... work like that."

"But the way you kiss me, the way you touch me."

He covered his face with his hands as if he were growing irritated. She watched as he began walking towards the door.

"Sherlock, if you leave, I will _never_ forgive you."

He stopped, pivoting on his heels to look at her. "If me staying here is just going to make this harder on you, then what is the point?"

"The point is that you should _want_ to stay!"

"I do!" he raised his voice more than he had meant to.

He walked across the kitchen towards her, taking her face in his hands. "Don't do this, Margaux, please."

"Nothing between us has ever felt _normal_. Except when we're doing what we just did in there. So for you to tell me you 'don't work like that', it feels like every time we've slept together it's meant something very different to me than it has to you."

He didn't know what to say. So he said nothing.

"Okay," she sighed. "Listen, maybe it would be better if you go. Say goodbye now and save the hurt."

His eyes darted across her face, looking for signs that she was bluffing, that she was testing him to see what he would do. But there was nothing. It was killing her, but she meant it.

He began to shake his head. "I don't want to leave."

She sensed a sadness in his voice; if she didn't know him better, she would be sure he was fighting back tears.

"Sherlock..."

"Please don't do this," he whispered. "Just... give me this night. Please."

He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. But she remained still. He continued to lay desperate kisses over her face; across her cheeks, her lips, her jaw.

"Margaux, please."

"I want you to stay," she whispered.

A relieved smile curled the corners of his mouth.

"No facades," she continued. "No editing yourself or holding back things you want to say."

He nodded. "Okay."

"I mean it, Sherlock. Because you might be here to gather information for your bloody mind palace, but this night is for me too."

"Yes, you're right. You're completely right."

"And I want to remember it like this. With you holding me, telling me what you're really feeling."

He nodded. "I can do that."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

She took a deep breath. "Okay."

He remained quiet, looking down at her and stroking her cheek with his thumb.

"I'm going to check on Vaughan," she said, taking his hand and lowering it from her face.

He nodded, stepping aside and letting her go.

*

She slipped into the bedroom, closing the door gently behind her. Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, typing on his phone as the screen illuminated his face.

"Is he okay?" he asked, his eyes never leaving his phone.

"He's fine. Fast asleep with his teddy." She walked over and sat down next to him. "Who are you texting?"

"John. He's coming to the airfield tomorrow to say goodbye."

"That's nice. I'm glad you'll get to see him one last time before you go."

He locked the phone and slid it into his trouser pocket. "He should be furious with me. You all should."

"You said yourself you did what you had to do. You saved Mary."

He was silent, staring ahead as if he were thinking deeply. She placed a hand on his shoulder and rubbed it gently. He turned to face her, his eyes falling on the bruises he'd left on her skin. He reached out and touched her neck, rubbing his thumb over them.

"I lost control..." he said.

"I liked it," she replied with a shrug.

"Even so, it's not how I wanted it to go."

"How did you want it to go?"

"Slow, thorough, forbearing..."

"Not really our style."

He gave a short laugh in the back of his throat. "I wanted it to be."

She waited a moment, deliberating with herself before speaking again. "Can I tell you something?"

"Mhm."

"You're the only man that's ever given me an orgasm."

"Really?"

She nodded. "So you're clearly doing something right."

"Or the other men you've been with are just idiots."

She laughed.

"Actually," he said. "Can we not... get into that. I don't like imagining you... with other..."

She pointed to her neck. "Is that why you did this? To brand me as yours?" she joked.

"You're not mine."

She dropped her hand into her lap, pressing her lips together awkwardly.

"Sorry," he added.

"No, you're right. I'm not yours." She replied as she stood up. "So I should probably give this back to you."

He inhaled deeply, trying to ignore the shiver running down his spine as he watched her unbutton his shirt and hand it to him. She gave a subtle smirk as she walked naked around the side of the bed and climbed on, lying down on top of the duvet.

She had made her move; if it were a game of chess, this would have been Check. He looked over his shoulder at her as she rolled onto her side away from him.

"There's a blanket on the couch if you get cold," she said.

She closed her eyes and hugged her pillow, waiting patiently to see what he would do. A smile crept across her face as she felt the bed shift, and suddenly he was behind her, pressing his chest into her back and cupping her breast in his hand. Check.

She pushed her backside into him, feeling his growing arousal as she looked over her shoulder. "I thought I wasn't yours..."

He nipped at her earlobe, soothing the sting with a kiss as he ran his hand down her side and gripped her hip, pulling her against him with a growl. "Tonight you are."

Checkmate.


End file.
